


prompt: love

by madin456



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 4+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Artists, Artist Kozume Kenma, M/M, Painting, i will combust if i have to describe paint one more time, krkn exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madin456/pseuds/madin456
Summary: To create a palette fitting of Kuroo, in this very moment, he would need the gentle nature of wisteria and soft slated greys and overturned magenta. A hint of tangerine reflected on the kitchen table, dissolving into skin, and round shadows casted beneath crossed arms, up the length of the wall.For Kenma’s art class, he is required to create a painting every week following a prompt. Somehow, Kuroo ends up being the focus in all of them.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kozume Kenma, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61
Collections: Kuroken Christmas Exchange 2020





	prompt: love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chIoexe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chIoexe/gifts).



> this is for the kuroken exchange!! i was honoured to write for chloe's artist au prompt. i had lots of fun participating in this event and i hope you like it <3
> 
> in this fic, kenma lives together with kuroo and their cat, no one goes to school, and nekoma is a community volleyball team. ty melly for beta reading. enjoy!!

_i. prompt: family_

“Hold _still_.” Kenma glances up from behind his easel to level Kuroo with a look of annoyance. It’s ridiculous, really, how predictable their interactions can be sometimes, but Kenma’s patience is running particularly thin today because it’s only been half an hour since they started. Kuroo is usually able to last longer than this without vocalizing his complaints.

The pose isn’t hard. It _shouldn’t_ be hard. All Kenma asked Kuroo to do is hold their pet cat, Taro, in his lap and sit on the couch in any position he wants, any position that’s comfortable. Compared to some of the other requests he’s asked of Kuroo in the past, this one should be easy. And yet, Kuroo still groans like he’s dying a slow death, fidgeting in place every couple of minutes.

“There’s an itch on my leg. Please, can I—”

 _“Endure it,”_ Kenma says through gritted teeth, barely even sparing him a glance as he dabs his paintbrush onto the canvas. The sun will set in about an hour which means all the shadows will shift and he’s going to lose the natural lighting soon if he doesn’t get this done.

“I can’t! It’s really itchy!” Kuroo proclaims, and great, he’s started to shake his leg in desperation. “I don’t think Taro can take it much longer, either.”

That’s a bold-faced lie and they both know it. Taro is curled up into a ball, looking perfectly content in her position. The sunlight from the window shines down on her fur, adding warmth, and it would be almost poetic if Kuroo wasn’t acting like he’s being tortured.

Kenma sighs, refusing to dignify him with a response. Kuroo eventually quiets down and they fall into something more comfortable, more familiar. In the end, they both know that Kenma doesn’t really have the heart to force Kuroo to stay here with him if he was actually uncomfortable doing so.

.

Hinata Shouyou comments on it once, in the small studio of their art classroom just as Kenma is getting settled in his seat: “Huh. You always draw the same person in your pieces.”

The room smells of paint and oils, a persistent, lingering odour left behind from the class before theirs. Shouyou’s head is tilted in a way that reminds him of a baby bird, curious expression easy to read on his face. As Kenma takes out the rest of his art supplies from his bag, he shrugs in response. It’s true; he likes to stick with what he knows, and what he knows best is Kuroo.

Aloud, Kenma says, “I live with him, so he’s an easy subject to draw.”

“Who is he?”

“Kuroo,” Kenma responds, then adds, “my best friend.”

That seems to be enough to satisfy Shouyou. He leans back in his seat, exasperated sigh escaping from his lips and a wistful expression on his face. “You’re lucky. Kageyama would never let me draw him.”

Although Kenma has never met Kageyama personally, Shouyou has brought up his name enough times for him to be someone important, someone he could talk about for hours. Even as the wooden frame of the studio door rattles open and their teacher greets the class, Shouyou continues to recount stories of his attempts at convincing Kageyama to be the subject of one of his art pieces—just _one_.

In this regard, Shouyou had called him lucky. And while Kenma has never thought about it that way before, he supposes it’s not wrong. As much as Kuroo complains about how long each painting takes and how hard it is for him to stay in one position the whole time, he always willingly agrees to it in the end.

* * *

_ii. prompt: habit_

During one of their in-class discussions, when the teacher gave them time to work on their own independent projects, Shouyou told Kenma that the way he paints is by feeling. At this point, they had only just met a few classes prior, and Kenma didn’t know him well enough to understand what he meant, exactly. Shouyou tried to explain it to him, like sometimes he feels a line should go _whoosh_ whereas other times it’s more of a _wham_ , but that had only managed to make Kenma more confused.

It wasn’t until Shouyou brought out some of his completed paintings for Kenma to see for himself that he realized how those words translated into art. Some strokes were long and thin, spanning from one end of the canvas to the other, created by gentle curves of the paintbrush. Others were much thicker, bolder, like a statement to be plastered on brick walls. They came together, cohesive in a way that’s difficult to replicate, and that’s what makes Shouyou’s works special.

Now, Kenma reflects on his own process as he carefully positions both his canvas and himself to capture the dozing figure of Kuroo’s half-dream state. Unlike Shouyou, the way Kenma paints is calculating. Deliberate. He takes molten gold and sequin silver and whisks them into a perfectly cultivated blend of smooth, even ratios. Drizzles pearl-tinted hues like moondust along the edges of the frame, each speck meticulously placed.

For example: to create a palette fitting of Kuroo, in this very moment, he would need the gentle nature of wisteria and soft slated greys and overturned magenta. A hint of tangerine reflected on the kitchen table, dissolving into skin, and round shadows casted beneath crossed arms, up the length of the wall.

It’s a thing of trust. Kenma has done this enough times to put faith in his hands, converting vision to reality from the tips of his fingers. He molds Kuroo’s hair like alabaster dipped in sunshine, catching spots of light between thick strands, and lifts the paintbrush before it overwhelms. He blurs the wooden dining chair into the background and counts the exact number of strokes needed to create fluttering eyelashes.

In moments like these, Kenma finds his art to be the most private. There’s a period of time after the last bristle of the brush marks the canvas and before it’s taken off the easel to be shown to the world where he simply gets to sit with his creation without being subjected to prying eyes.

Here in the kitchen, there is nothing else except him, the painting, and the soft exhales of Kuroo’s sleeping figure draped over the dining table.

* * *

_iii. prompt: motion_

The local volleyball team knows Kenma because of the sheer number of times he’s shown up to their practice sessions, even though he’s not an athlete himself, to the point where they’ve come to expect his presence every Tuesday afternoon. As he slides open the gym doors, he’s greeted with warm welcomes and friendly pats on the back, almost as if he’s one of their own. There is a bench reserved just for him by the back wall, and he walks over to sit next to the coach, observing the game from the best angle in the gym.

The one who’s actually part of the team is Kuroo. Kenma just tags along, partially because he’s a good friend and partially because of all the dynamic models at his disposal with everyone always on their feet and moving in one way or another. It’s the perfect setting for him to open up his sketchbook and copy down the different poses in real time.

Catching the players in their most memorable positions is not unlike the figure drawing exercises he used to do. His hand moves quickly, pencil gliding across the page with flicks of his wrist. The focus is on capturing the moment and the energy that accompanies it in broad, fluid lines; the anticipation of a receive and the satisfying hit of a spike.

When Kenma transforms the sketches into a painting that night, he depicts a snapshot of a volleyball player jumping up in the air, bright stadium lights shining down on a red uniform. The athlete is just inches away from the net and everything else around him is a blur. The person could be anyone, really, any of the twelve volleyball players on the Nekoma Team.

Except—they say that art is an expression of the artist. And anyone who knows Kenma even a little bit will know, instantly, without a doubt, that the person on the canvas could never be anyone but Kuroo.

.

In a separate sketchbook, privy to only Kenma himself, there are pages upon pages of rough linework forming the shape of one Kuroo Tetsurou. It’s almost embarrassing just how many drawings of Kuroo there are, how inspiration seems to strike Kenma with a force that possesses him whenever he so much as glances over in his roommate’s direction. By now, he must have captured Kuroo in every possible angle doing every activity imaginable—and yet.

And yet.

There is always something that manages to surprise him when he wakes up to see Kuroo’s unruly bedhead in the morning; when he walks beside Kuroo on their way to the grocery store; when he leans against Kuroo on the couch during one of their movie sessions, fighting the allure of sleep in the hours past midnight. Kenma has known Kuroo since childhood, almost a decade of friendship, and somehow, there is still more to Kuroo that he has yet to learn.

As Kenma flips through the pages, he notes that this sketchbook is a photo album and time capsule all in one. It holds a record of everything Kuroo has shared with him over the years, the parts of Kuroo that only Kenma is allowed to see.

Closing the sketchbook, he slides it back into his drawer for safekeeping. As much as he enjoys sharing his art with other people, these pictures of Kuroo are ones that he’d rather keep to himself.

* * *

_iv. prompt: nature_

Kenma’s lungs are burning by the time they reach the clearance in the forest. It’s early; too early to be out of bed and much too early to be in the middle of nowhere, walking through trees and climbing on uneven soil. He’s so tired that he can’t even celebrate the success of finally making it to their destination, legs giving out on him instantly and entire body collapsing to the ground. At six in the morning, he doesn’t know what compelled him to come on this trip.

Beside him, Kuroo doesn’t even seem to be sweating. He stands with his hands on his hips, feet spread shoulder-width apart, facing the distance. “Look, Kenma. Isn’t this view worth the hike?”

Kenma does look, and what he sees is the cityscape before them unraveling itself as the sun emerges from beneath the horizon line. Light shines through the curtain of clouds, slowly, then all at once. A hazed blurriness shrouds the streets at ground level, dense mist from overnight lingering into daybreak.

He has to admit: it’s beautiful. Kenma isn’t usually awake early enough to witness the sun begin its ascent into the sky and it feels like watching the world unfold through the eyes of a newborn. Inspiration hits him with a force that leaves him breathless, a jittery kind of feeling coursing through his veins that has his fingers twitching to hold a paintbrush in his hands.

When Kenma starts moving, it is with a sense of purpose. He dusts himself off and gets back on his feet, grabbing the easel that he had carried with him to prop it up beside a large tree. Fatigue now overlooked, he mixes the colours of sunrise on his palette, and begins to immortalize the moment in front of him.

The image takes form on canvas in layers—first the sky, then the city, and finally hints of the woodlands in the foreground. Muted tones of cotton candy pink smooth into long, arching ropes across the landscape and the early rays of sunlight douse nearby buildings in warm hues. It’s not often that Kenma manages to recreate the atmosphere of a piece with such accuracy, the delicate peacefulness of early morning tranquility whispering along the seams with each stroke of his brush.

When he’s done, he steps back to get a better look at it. Despite the half hour hike and the breathtaking view in front of him, the painting Kenma creates still features Kuroo at the center of it all, standing before a sunrise that doesn’t quite manage to rival his beauty.

.

The world seen through Kenma’s eyes is filled with shapes and patterns, colours and light. Always moving, always in flux; there is a certain flow to how refracted light bends around objects of varying densities. Having observed a multitude of things, the way different objects behave depending on their environments and interactions can get predictable, sometimes, but it’s never boring. Never monotonous.

Because—the plants on the windowsill aren’t just green; they’re chartreuse, edging on envy, with thin leaves housing rigid thorns that add just enough texture to make someone look twice. Xylem sprawls from root to tip and long stems grow to kiss the sky, defying gravity.

A person’s eyes aren’t just brown; they’re honey-toned and warm with wrinkles around the edges indicating a smile. Sharp when they’re focused and gentle when gazing at a loved one. They speak—not in words, perhaps, but a different kind of language; of quick flickers and unspoken acknowledgement and slow blinks fluttering against curved collarbones.

This is the kind of art Kenma tries to bring into the world—the kind of art used to fill spaces that have been quiet for too long. It’s how he learned to navigate the unknown when he was young and how he comes to better understand foreign concepts even now. Something about converting places and people and objects to their most basic properties on canvas makes it easier for him to see things as they really are.

It’s just how Kenma has always been. If something interesting catches his attention, he will focus on it until he has understood all there is to know, and even then, he might never move on from it completely.

In this sense, it is unsurprising that he spends most of his time looking at Kuroo.

* * *

_v. prompt: ?_

“Kenma.”

Broad strokes fill the canvas, frantic in a way that’s very much unlike Kenma’s usual painting style. There’s a slow-building sense of agitation growing within him, and each dab of marigold and saffron smear across woven fabric like they’re chasing after something fleeting. Like if he looks away and lets his mind wander for even a second too long, the image he’s visualizing will fade into irretrievable corners of his mind.

When that happens, the fresh paint on the palette will dry and waste away. The incomplete picture will be tossed out, frustration seeping through the lines.

And Kenma can’t allow any of that to happen this time. He _can’t_ —so he continues to paint, overcome with a feverish sense of determination.

In front of him, Kuroo’s eyes dart back and forth as if to make up for not moving any other part of his body. They’re approaching the second hour and that’s usually when he starts struggling to maintain the pose Kenma instructed him to uphold. “Are you sure I don’t need to be holding anything?”

“I’m sure.”

It’s clearly not the answer Kuroo is looking for, and he groans to show his dissatisfaction. “Why can’t you just tell me what the prompt is like you always do?”

Kenma spares him a glance, but otherwise ignores the question. He brings his attention back to his work, switching paintbrushes to fill in the details. He sharpens the edges into something bold and dusts highlights along cheekbones until the entire piece is washed out in muted colours.

For all of his urgency, the end result that Kenma creates is nothing spectacular. Upon first glance, it might even be considered plain in comparison to his other works, but that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

To put it simply: the painting depicts Kuroo, as himself, the way Kenma sees him in everyday life.

The way Kenma likes him best.

.

There are three things Kenma doesn’t tell Kuroo.

One: he can easily find other subjects to paint. He doesn’t need Kuroo to model for him every time he has to complete an assignment for class. The prompts they’re given are often open-ended to encourage students to go out of their comfort zones and make the most out of their practice; after all, improvement comes from experimenting with a variety of different studies and techniques.

Two: while there may be other options available to him, the reality is that there aren’t many things Kenma particularly _wants_ to paint besides Kuroo. This is a simple, indisputable truth.

Three: the prompt this time isn’t really a prompt at all. Not from his art class, at least, and certainly not from any homework his teacher has assigned. If anything, it’s an excuse—an excuse to let his gaze linger on Kuroo longer than he would normally allow himself and immortalize the moment in long swoops across fitted linen.

This desire, it burns. It aches and spreads like tendrils out from his fingertips, blistering the canvas with bright, saturated pigments. It’s a feeling that, when condensed into a single word, can only be described as something akin to fondness. To admiration. To—

.

This painting ends up being the only one Kuroo insists on hanging up, pushing for it even when Kenma scrunches his nose in distaste and protests at first. He concedes, eventually, but they compromise and place it in a corner of their living room that is only visible from a certain angle, far enough that people have to be invited inside to see it.

Sometime between the paint drying and the tedious ordeal of inserting a hook on the apartment wall where the canvas will go, Kuroo tells him, _I don’t know what you did, but there’s something different about this one… I like it._ At the time, Kenma had only hummed in return, thinking to himself, _of course it’s different_. It was the first time he painted Kuroo through his own lens, the way he wanted to, and not to fulfill an assignment given to him by his art teacher.

Standing in front of it now, five steps away from where it’s hung up on display, Kuroo nudges Kenma against the arm. “So, are you ever going to tell me what the prompt for this one was?”

And Kenma, whose hands are always stained in some combination of red and white and black, interlocks his fingers between Kuroo’s, and says, “You already know.”

.

_—love._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://chaasiu.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/chaasiu) if you wanna scream about hq!


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